


house and home

by couldaughter



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Breakfast: The Most Important Meal Of The Day, Curtain Fic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 06:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19882924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: But there were still special occasions, and special occasions warranted special meals. Like, for example, 'You came out to your parents yesterday, and it was kind of emotionally exhausting? And I kind of feel guilty about it and need to mediate my guilt by pouring orange juice into a champagne flute and burning your toast to shit just the way you like."Sadly, Hallmark didn't make cards for that.





	house and home

The first time David made Patrick breakfast, it was an accident.

Not that he tripped over a frying pan and an omelette flew out of his ass or anything, but — he was on autopilot, okay, after a long night of not sleeping great, and he made too much oatmeal, and he thought — why not bring in the extra to work, right, have a snack sometime on the shop floor?

It had been pretty rushed in there the past couple weeks, in the run up to Valentines, but it wasn't _that_ bad. He'd have time for some fortifying porridge oats with just a couple shovelfuls of sugar mixed in.

But then he'd arrived with the tupperware of oatmeal in hand and:

"Oh, David!" Patrick smiled at him, soft and bright the way he always did, and stepped round the counter for the kiss David was starting to believe he might get every single morning. "Sleep okay?"

"Oh, just excellently," replied David, leaning one hip against the wooden counter, worrying at his sweater sleeve with his fingers. "No insomnia here, just plain sailing the whole night. Definitely not any goddamn freight trains every three hours for some fucking reason."

Freight trains were David's official nemesis. Forget James Franco: this was true hatred.

Patrick rubbed his shoulder through the sweater, and frowned. "You should've texted, I could've opened on my own. Roland hasn’t even come in yet."

 _You already do too much for me_ almost tripped right off David's tongue. It was caught in his throat kind of a lot of the time, especially when Patrick looked at him the way he was right at that moment; like he was something worth any trouble at all.

What he actually said, after an agonising pause, was, "No, don't worry about it, I'm fine. I once stayed up seventy two hours on a bender with Emma Watson before a gallery opening and gave what some called my finest commencing speech."

"Oh really," said Patrick, forehead creased just the tiniest bit. David really wanted to kiss it smooth. "And do you remember the speech at all?"

"Sure," said David. "It was all over TMZ the day after. Some guy got up on stage after and pissed all over a Banksy, raised the market value about thirty grand."

"Right," said Patrick. He shook his head, and looked down at the ground, then shrugged. "Gotta be honest, you haven't convinced me with that one."

"Well, fine, but you're deflecting me from asking the real questions," said David. He held out the tupperware and cracked the lid, revealing his haute cuisine oatmeal to the world. Or, well, just Patrick. Same difference. "Would you believe I cooked this with my own two hands? I am a true chef and culinary visionary."

Patrick's stomach rumbled.

David raised his eyebrows as Patrick flushed beet red. "Wait a goddamn second, Patrick. Did you... miss breakfast?"

Patrick was a great believer in the nutritional power of breakfast. He'd once caught David eating a Clif bar before nine am and the look of sad disappointment had lingered in David's mind at the kitchenette counter for weeks.

"Ray failed to inform me that he decided to start a tile regrouting business this week and is using the kitchen as a showroom," he said, looking mournfully at the oatmeal. "All I had was a granola bar before his first client arrived and honestly? It was not great granola."

David frowned. "Well, in that case..." He put the oatmeal on the counter and stepped through to the stockroom. There was a tiny counter back there with a microwave and a teetering stack of cup ramen, along with what David needed—a mug that held three sets of cutlery. The mug said World's Worst Mayor, a generous re-gift from Roland. He grabbed a spoon and headed back out.

"Enjoy," he said, shoving the spoon and tupperware into Patrick's hands. "And, uh, don't look at me while you eat it. And if you get poisoned it was definitely Alexis, and I will definitely avenge you."

"I'd expect nothing less," said Patrick. "And, David," he continued, as David made his escape towards the moisturisers. "Thank you."

David chose not to dignify that with a response, and buried his own traitorous smile in a sea of body milk bottles.

* * *

After Patrick moved into his own apartment, David spent a lot of time _eating_ breakfast _with_ his boyfriend, but there still wasn't a lot of cooking in his actual life. Why cook when the Cafe Tropical had such a scintillating collection of nearly edible brunch items? Why spend time making pancakes when he could steal ten extra minutes in bed in the mornings and grab a granola bar on the way out the door?

But there were still special occasions, and special occasions warranted special meals. Like, for example, 'You came out to your parents yesterday, and it was kind of emotionally exhausting? And I kind of feel guilty about it and need to mediate my guilt by pouring orange juice into a champagne flute and burning your toast to shit just the way you like."

Sadly, Hallmark didn't make cards for that. David had checked.

So he woke up super early—like, pre-seven am early—and only spent five minutes watching Patrick's face as he slept, smooth and unworried and dream-content, before he untangled himself from the blanket-and-Patrick cocoon he'd come to love so goddamn much it was disgusting, and went to the kitchen to make breakfast.

Luckily Patrick was a functional adult who actually did things like drive forty-five minutes to Elmdale to do his grocery shopping, so he had stuff like flour and eggs and fresh fruit in his kitchen. Luckily for David, his phone had been charging on the night table so he had plenty of battery to spare on googling how the fuck you actually made pancakes, anyway.

He was on his fourth pancake when Patrick ambled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and looking kind of fatally cute. David leaned back to kiss him on the cheek, smiling against the rasp of stubble.

"Morning, Patrick," he said, something incredibly soft slipping up from his heart and into his voice. "Hope you like, uh, David's Apology Pancakes." He waved his spatula at the pancake plate, currently stacked with two decent pancakes and one deformed monstrosity. It tasted good, though. David had ended up with a good quarter of it stuck to the pan and figured eating it was the best course of action before putting the whole thing in the sink to soak.

"Oh, I'm sure they're my favourite when I'm awake," said Patrick, wrapping an arm around David's waist. He rested his cheek on David's shoulder, hair soft against David's neck. "And when you've got something to apologise for, I'll definitely be looking out for them."

David barely stopped himself from melting, then remembered—this was Patrick. He could melt as much as he goddamn pleased.

"I figured the neighbours might get kinda pissed off with Tina before coffee."

"Philistines," said Patrick. He was muffled by David's shoulder, smile barely visible against his shirt.

"You understand me," said David. He really hadn't meant for it to sound like a confession, but—he didn't mean for a lot of things he said to turn out the way they did in reality. At least this one made Patrick hug him tighter.

"I love you too," replied Patrick, matter of fact and warm as always. "Also, your pancake is burning."

"Ah, _fuck_. "

* * *

David was peripherally aware of the term 'Wedding Breakfast' as an adult, but never having been invited to one he had literally no idea what they actually entailed. Like, what did you even eat at a wedding breakfast? Did the wedding cake have to be a breakfast flavour? What even _was_ a breakfast flavour?

He had a feeling that there were definitely some hipster bullshit bacon wedding cakes out there. Tacky _and_ treif. Even coming up with the thought had given him an allergic reaction.

It definitely wasn't a stress related rash, thank you _very_ much mom.

"I'm just looking out for you dear," she said, patting him consolingly on the arm. She'd insisted on accompanying him into Elmdale to find his wedding outfit, which involved a lot more wig and hat shopping than any reasonable groom-to-be probably ought to tolerate.

David was just happy to indulge his mom, after her three week long Crows related depressive episode. It was shocking how much Bosnian he'd picked up while Moira wailed in the adjoining room.

"Whatever you say," he replied, and turned back to sorting through the rack of thrifted suit jackets in front of him. The wedding budget probably _could_ have stretched to renting new suits for both of them, but—David really wanted to be able to look at his wedding outfit in the future, alright. Maybe show it to unrelated small children who happened to be in the vicinity every so often, perhaps on a timeshare scheme of some kind.

He wasn't going to get specific about that particular thought until he could lock himself somewhere quiet and have a very sophisticated meltdown.

But anyway, that was why he was at the most upmarket thrift store this side of Ottawa with a few towards something at least approaching a vintage fashion aesthetic. Patrick had suggested 'cowboy, but make it fashion' as a theme during one of David's mood board related rants.

Patrick was very good at making David feel ridiculous without feeling small. It was a real talent.

"Oh, look at _this_ , " said Moira, muffled by a row of seven thousand flannel shirts. David had already picked out one for Stevie as a thank you gift for being his best man.

David pushed through the forest of crushed velvet he'd been absently stroking. Moira was holding out—well, it looked like a jacket. Maybe.

It was sort of difficult to call it a jacket, really. It looked like a chicken had fucked a cow. There was an honest to god ruff of peacock feathers at the neck. It was so fucking ugly David almost dropped dead.

Moira was absolutely going to buy it.

"Please tell me that's not going to turn up at my wedding," he said, after a moment of stunned silence. "I _will_ have you committed."

"Oh, David, no. You know Sunrise Bay had a very well appointed mental asylum, I have every familiarity with the abominable conditions within such hideous sanitariums! Besides, this is evidently destined for somewhere even greater than the sunny beaches and grim institutions of the Bay—the costume department of the new theatre societe."

"Whatever you say, mom," said David. The new theatre group was about eighty percent of the reason Moira had managed to get out of the motel long enough to ask David whether he'd drive her into Elmdale in the first place. "Can we please focus on the wedding? We've been here an hour and I still only have a bowtie picked out."

It matched the colour scheme perfectly, of course, but beyond that—David had texted a picture of it to Patrick, and Patrick had said he liked it. But that was the limit, right, because David was going to be _traditional_ and honour his mom by not letting Patrick see the entire outfit together until the actual wedding. Even if it left him having an anxiety spiral about a double breasted blazer in emerald green crushed velvet fifteen minutes before the store closed for lunch.

"Leave it for now, darling," said Moira. She tapped him on the arm and guided him out of the store, bow tie still dangling from his fingers. He was pretty sure he'd paid for it. Like, about ninety percent sure. "Let's go and have some—oh, Patrick!"

David really had no idea how people were convinced by his mom's acting career. He'd met hordes of adoring fans as a child, being trotted out at parties and events as some kind of wunderkind for knowing sixteen bars of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik on the flute.

If she'd engineered Patrick showing up, though, when he was supposed to be two hours away at some business conference, he wasn't going to complain.

"Hi," said Patrick, in his stupid blue button down and horrible brown slacks. David loved him so much it physically hurt, sometimes.

"Hi," said David. He handed Moira the bow tie and walked two steps into Patrick's arms.

* * *

Wedding breakfasts, as it turned out, were incredible.

This was not only due to the fact that David was eating it with his _husband_ next to him, the most incredible man he had ever met and who had apparently decided that he wanted to spend his life with _David_ , for reasons he had explained in so many ways by now that David was kind of starting to lose count.

He didn't mind, though. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of hearing them, or of returning the favour. Even if he'd definitely exhausted his capacity for public displays of affection for like, a full decade after crying his way through the entire ceremony.

It was also amazing because wedding breakfasts, as it turned out, could have literally whatever food you wanted. So while organising the catering had been kind of a nightmare until Twyla stepped in with a cousin who had actually _gone_ to catering school, unlike Ray, it had all turned out okay in the end.

“David!”

Alexis glowed, even more than usual thanks to the absolute jungle of string lights above, and brushed a loose strand of perfectly curled hair behind her ear. Her dress was something Patrick thought he recognised from one of their rare run-ins as teenagers, knee length and floaty and absolutely fucked up with sequins. It suited her.

David waved a hand in her general direction, and leaned further into Patrick’s shoulder. “Mmm, busy, call back later.”

“Not an option, loser,” she said, fondly. Her plate was empty of everything except the decorative sprig of mint, which David had fought hard against exclusively because it reduced real estate for actual food. It did add a certain something, he had to admit. “You’re, like, married now.”

“Wow, really? I didn’t even notice.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Be nice, David. Your sister is trying to have a moment, here.”

David smiled against his will, felt his mouth twist up to the side as he fought against it. Patrick’s free hand stole around David’s waist to rest on his hip. David felt slightly like he was on fire; it’d happened to him once at a performance art show and he definitely preferred it stay metaphorical this time.

Hence the candle veto on the tables, even if it would’ve fit the moodboard.

“Like I was _saying_ ,” continued Alexis, unbothered by the interruption. “You’re married! And, like, that’s weird, right?”

“Oh, sure,” said David. “It’s not like you knew about it the whole time or anything.” And sure, the subtext of what Alexis was saying ( _I literally sat on the gross bathroom floor at the motel and talked you through a panic attack about this two days ago_ ) was sincere and honestly kind of touching, but he really didn’t need to think about that while he was full of wedding breakfast and like, actual positive emotions.

“Shut _up_ ,” said Alexis. “I’m trying to be supportive or whatever.”

“And it’s working out super well so far,” he replied. “And thank you, and please finish your dessert so me and Patrick can go have married person sex far away from here.”

“You’re going to Toronto, David, not Saturn,” said Dad, who was maybe the last person alive that David would’ve wanted to hear that last sentence.

“ _God_ ,” he mumbled, directly into Patrick’s shoulder.

“No, just me,” said Patrick. “Better be sure you know who you’re having _married person sex_ with, David.”

“I hate everyone in the entire world,” said David.

“Sure you do, babe,” said Patrick. “Sure you do.”

“Alright,” David muttered, leaning in. “Maybe there’s _one_ exception.”

**Author's Note:**

> schitts creek ruined my life: an autobiography
> 
> i don't think david is naturally an acts of service kind of guy, but patrick has been an influence in his life and he tries, okay, even if the pancakes were Definitely Terrible. case in point: surprise party. this did start out its life as a 5+1 fic about breakfast but then moira turned up so it's more like... actual curtain fic, but with bow ties and hideous jackets.
> 
> decorative sprig of mint = a reference to a long distant season of great british menu, when michael caine (the chef, not the actor) put a mint sprig in a dessert and one of the judges was Absolutely Not Having It. classic telly.
> 
> anyway! hope this voyage through softness brought you some joy - if you wanna talk more in depth about this, or any of my significantly more niche interests, i can be found on both blue hellsites @dotsayers, generally having a meltdown about something or other.
> 
> comments are absolutely always cherished!!


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